The Persian at the Table I cross Istiklal, tram bell shrilling and simit vendor’s shouts echoing off marble façades and old Beaux-Arts apartments. The phone buzzes hot in my hand—you trust the wrong one—but my eyes stay locked on the lace-curtained window. Asdar falls into shadow-flank, no words; all fine-tuned presence, golden eyes watching for…
Tag: grounded magical realism
The COMC Files Book V chapter 13
Tarmo Most women, for me, are beautiful cities: worth savouring, never worth staying. Elena was never a pin on my map. She’s the one place I keep circling, whatever the longitude: Pärnu, Zurich, the nights where, against every adult instinct, I bargained with powers older than strategy. Called on Odin like some northern fool in…
The COMC Files Book V chapter 12
The bathroom is a sanctuary—steam blurring the shards of strategy, suspicion, and Burçu’s steel-edged words. Hot water scours off every diplomatic layer until nothing’s left but pulse and skin, the day’s political foreplay rinsed down to soap and heat. Stepping out, I’m my own ghost in the mirror: hair dripping, towel knotted at my hips,…
The COMC Files Book V chapter 10
The Coffee Tightens Burçu’s spoon traces deliberate, silent circles in thick coffee. Her gaze is fixed on the swirling grounds, as if they might condense themselves into the neat bullet points of a diplomatic cable. “Since the EU accession dream ended,” she says, “Türkiye’s rewritten its own rules—always in motion between West and East, between…
The COMC Files Book V chapter 9
The Meeting Morning pries itself through Istanbul’s glass and minarets—a blue-gold light, soft and sleepless.Sleep claimed me late, but the city’s hum—street vendors, ferry horns, muttered prayers—is relentless. The scent of Tarmo’s cologne, mint and pistachio from sweets untouched, clings in corners and to my skin. Istanbul’s lesson: nobody gives up their pieces—only moves them…
The COMC Files Book V chapter 8
The Wolf’s Silence After Tarmo leaves, the room is louder—his absence thickens the air, the old mosaic and high ceilings seeming to absorb and amplify every unspoken word. On the side table, pastries glint under the lamplight: pistachio shine, sheets of syrup stiffening with neglect. Mint tea, untouched, sends up a last drift of steam,…
The COMC Files: Book V
Chapter One — Departure I wake to cool light and absence. The space beside me is empty; only the dent in the pillow remains. On the dresser, a folded sheet in Asdar’s slanted hand: Where eyes don’t see, the heart will be ominously aware. A sigh escapes. I fold the note and stick it on…
The COMC Files: Torrid London, Bosphorus Bound
As soon as the front door closes and Tarmo’s footsteps fade, the hush in the flat deepens. London suddenly vast, the night pressing in like velvet. I remain braced for a moment, the ache of old arguments and unwelcome love still crawling over my skin. Istanbul waits on the table, Tarmo’s scent lingering like a…
The COMC Files: King’s Gold
Old Foxes and City Spring I set the burner on the counter beside my forgotten groceries. Two hours. The old Fox doesn’t waste time. I strip off my coat, catch my reflection in the hall mirror—hair still wild from travel, shadows under my eyes that haven’t lifted since Romania. My body carries the toll: months…
The COMC Files: Flash-back&forth
The Visitor Spring in London is a redrawing of boundaries. Green creeps up the ancient plane trees in Regent’s Park, daffodils thick in the shadier corners. I move through it all half-ghost, hands clasped behind my back, ignoring my vibrating phone, stopping to watch the dogs or ferrying trays of coffee back to my armchair…
The C.O.M.C. Files 